


things that won't hurt

by isoldewas



Category: Dynasty (TV 2017)
Genre: F/M, I am not as proud as I usually am, for the life of me i could not remember his name, liam is a no good name for a sex scene, this was an exercise in style
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-23
Updated: 2019-04-23
Packaged: 2020-01-24 15:58:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18574783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isoldewas/pseuds/isoldewas
Summary: Liam is exhaustingly brilliant at parties. Throw him anywhere and there he was, surrounded instead of lonely, and she had to grab him by the shoulder, all plastered on smiles and big we-have-an-emergency eyes. Emergency being, Fallon might be in love.





	things that won't hurt

**Author's Note:**

> basically i’m writing this scene in every fandom and u can’t stop me

“you say the price of my love’s not a price you’re willing to pay” - you’ll be back, hamilton

***

_Spoiled. Little. Brat._

She finally deciphers what he’s been tracing on the inside of her thigh. It fucking hurts that it’s not other words. Darkest desires and such, secrets, wish fulfilment maybe, things that won’t be conscious, things that won’t hurt. 

But no, he has the presence of mind to wiggle a hand free and mark her with blasphemies. Because of course they are. Fallon isn’t spoiled.

And even if she is a little spoiled— Sure, she throws a party to lure him in and trap him in the vast spaces of her existence. So? One day, dad is going to give in and she’ll have everything; for now, she can manage a Liam.

He’s done tracing “-at” for the fourth time, his finger landing on a point right near where his mouth is against her, and he goes back to where he started with every other capital letter. “Spo-“

The words are so cliché. She isn’t. She isn’t, she isn’t, she isn’t; everything’s on repeat, except him: Liam’s all new.

All new, all hers, finally. Finally: she had to fight for it. _Fight_ has a blood-like taste to it. _Had to_ sounds whiny in her head. Nope, that’s too— no. Needy.

Liam is exhaustingly brilliant at parties. Throw him anywhere and there he was, surrounded instead of lonely, and she had to grab him by the shoulder, all plastered on smiles and big we-have-an-emergency eyes. Emergency being, Fallon might be in love.

She didn’t bother with usual motions. Sure, she was careful and precise, she’d locked the door _after_ he’d kissed her back. But she didn’t account for a no, because, why would she. He didn’t say no. Okay, maybe he didn’t say yes either, but after running so long around each other, it was implied. Implied, and bound to be over. She just chose the time and place.

In the middle of her room, he pushed her away only to be able to unbutton his shirt. She angled her head and watched.

To her, it was all painfully clear. To him, it merited ruining, what with his “you,” “are,” and “everywhere.” He said it like it’s three distinct things, like he was multitasking here. Which he obviously wasn’t. He too sounded whiny.

Honestly, if anyone is complaining, it should be her: yes, sure, first time meeting, he wins the who’s-the-victim-here contest. She was the one asking an unthinkable thing that came at a terrible price. But after that, maybe with the exception of the ski resort, it was all a kind of mutual destruction.

 _Well, you are everywhere too,_ she’d like to say, but her voice is on hold for now, until she’s sure it’s all good again. _All the same places,_ she’d add, and head, and heart, and skin, and now here too.

He isn’t repeating her name, all feverish and satisfied and grateful. He’s just kind of here. On his knees, on her bed. Her hand flexes around one of the pillows and the silk pillowcase is slippery, _not fair,_ she thinks as she pushes her hips. His mouth is hot and angry against her. Who knows if he’s any good at it, really. Liam’s proving a point here, clearly, a point that has everything to do with her, but still. And Fallon’s operating on something else entirely. Some unbecoming terrible instinct to lay there and surrender.

“Please,” needy doesn’t cover it but beggars and choosers aren’t or don’t, something. Fallon settles for whatever her inflexions are, for whatever he might think she is feeling. There is coming back from this.

Also. She can be whatever the fuck she wants.

“You don’t deserve this,” he says, unprompted. And there she was, having such a good time.

How dare he. How fucking dare he.

That insolent mouth of his.

Dare to defy, that’s a slogan somewhere isn’t it? She should buy him that. Might be a network though, which doesn’t really say one-week-anniversary. But then the anniversary of their marriage is coming up, so then, maybe. What would she even say on a card—

There are better ways to get her point across.

“Shut up,” there is fury in her voice now. An angry, ruthless thing that needs an outlet.

Her hand in his hair, she pulls and pulls and pulls until he winces and his eyes are on her. There is fury there too.

His nails dig into her hips, claws and flesh. He smiles like he’s won, like it’s settled now: he went down on her and she turned into a trembling mess, and that would usually mean he’s won.

Doesn’t he know by now?

It’s her claws and his flesh: in the publishing house and that damn bench and this bed. She moans loudly, all spectacle. What with being her, it’s almost not a lie.

Really, it’s the one thing that’s his that comes close enough to revenge. 

So she gives him everything. The humiliation in the bend of her knees, the arch of her back. The very sight of her must be enough and well worth the trouble and no trouble at all, really.

His hands on her hips, he lifts himself up to see her, trapped underneath. She leaves him to his delusion: _underneath, trapped. Spoiled, little._ None of it hers.

He was wrong just now. It’s not about deserve.

The idea is to win.

Lately, though, she seems to be losing her touch: certain wins only feel like one on paper, which is disappointing, because she wins bigger and bigger every time. This one though, this is a real thing, and somehow she knew that before Liam hooked his finger in the strap of her dress.

And so it happens. He’s here. He’s not going anywhere. His hands go to his belt.

Revenge is a subtle art when the battlefield is a bed and she doesn’t intend to hurt him. But even in a limited range, she manages.

“I don’t fucking think so,” she says. He doesn’t get to ask this of her. She’s hoarse, but it’s her already. All her, all good. He doesn’t ask again. 

She props herself up on her elbows and sits down on the bed at eye level with him. He looks almost peaceful despite the flush and the sweat. He raises an eyebrow in question like they are old friends who communicate and know each other inside out, who have worked through all things and arrived at the fucking pinnacle of any relationship, the silent understanding part.

He wishes.

She thinks she knows him.

She brushes her fingers against his jaw, _delicate_ comes to mind, in spite of the beard and the sharp edges and the resentment.

 _Delicate._ And then she thinks, _easy._


End file.
